My ambition was to write a simple poem which would appeal to all; to chambermaids as well as cognoscenti, ordinary business men as well as solitary artistic souls. Who will decide whether I have succeeded or failed? Only the public at large. The poem, no doubt, is too didactic for fragile aesthetics who glorify naught but evanescent words, but it is surely no shortcoming to try to express thought. Even exponents of the modern schools attempt this—occasionally. The way of expression is a different matter. It is open to criticism. But excuses that a critic knows nothing about a certain subject, and yet at the same time deliberate pricks at this very thorn in the flesh of his ignorance are sad to contemplate. Rhyme is surely out of date. And the supposed lack of rhythm is merely imaginary. Would you enjoy Japanese or Chinese music? Very likely not and yet they contain as fine a rhythm and as musical a quality as any modern composition. Only they are vaguer, subtle, different.
And on this difference hinges all logical and evasive argument. The practical philosophy contained in “My Rubaiyat,” of course, can be attacked for being non-moral or non-religious, but the technique of the poem can be discussed only from one viewpoint.
Sincerely yours,
Sadakichi Hartmann.
MY RUBAIYAT
I.
What should we dream, what should we say,
On this drear day, in this sad clime!
In the garden the asters fade,